


The Sensation Suit

by Evenlodes_Friend



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kinks, M/M, Machines, Male Slash, Rubber, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bored Sherlock comes up with a new experiment involving a rubber suit, several car batteries and some wire - but he needs some help from John to make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Data Set

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to, and inspired by the marvellous ChasingRiversong. I don't think I'll ever be able to write smut as well as she does, but I'm trying.

Sarah rang him at 2pm on the Monday afternoon.

‘You know I wouldn’t ask at such short notice,’ she snuffled into the phone. ‘But I’m desperate.’

‘Flu season,’ John agreed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his laptop. ‘When do you want me?’

‘Tomorrow for four days. It’s just till Friday. The out-of-hours service can cope over the weekend, and I’ll be back on form by Monday.’ He heard her cup her palm over the phone in order to cough. She sounded extremely grim.

‘Maybe you should get those lungs checked,’ he ventured.

‘Physician, heal thyself,’ she told him, testily. ‘I know what I’m doing, John. It’s just a cough.’

‘Yeah, right. Well, I’ll be in first thing tomorrow.’

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ she told him, and hung up.

‘Emotional blackmail,’ Sherlock said, his voice dripping acid.

‘She’s got flu, and a practise to run, Sherlock! Be a bit more generous!’

‘Ever since you broke up with her, she’s been pulling your strings mercilessly. She’s almost as good at manipulating you as I am.’

John huffed and got up. ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’m now going to iron a clean shirt for tomorrow.’

 

It was the usual parade of bad backs, dicky hips, and babies with eczema. He had one interesting case in the morning emergency slot, probable appendicitis, but it was not enough to raise his heart rate. He rang the hospital to arrange admission, and got on with the humdrum cases. This was why he gave up General Practice, he told himself on the bus home.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table when he got in, surrounded by car batteries, cables and a smorgesbord of electronic components. The air smelt of solder.

‘What are you doing?’ This was the reason he had been hesitant to take on Sarah’s locum work. There had been no case for a fortnight, and Sherlock was in one of his moods. John didn’t like to leave him on his own in case he came home to find the flat burnt out because his detective flatmate had decided to invent a new type of plastic explosive. But at least it was better than finding him shooting at the wall, or in a depressive stupor on the couch.

John took off his coat and watched as Sherlock connected a probe to the car battery.

‘What are you-‘ he began to repeat, but never finished because Sherlock then pressed the probe against his naked forearm and gave himself an electric shock.

 

They had to open every window in the flat to get the blue smoke out.

‘That was not the effect I anticipated,’ Sherlock told John lamely as he bandaged the blistered skin.

 

Next morning, when John got up for work, he found his friend still at the table, toiling away. He had clearly been up all night. The tangle of wires he had been working on had trebled in size.

‘What on earth is the point of all this, Sherlock?’ John sat down at the table and munched on his toast.

‘Experiment,’ Sherlock snapped back, not looking up. ‘Don’t get crumbs on it!’

When he got up to wash his plate, Sherlock waived his soldering iron languidly. ‘Oh, and we’re out of milk.’

‘Does that mean, John, could get some milk on your way home?’

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply.

 

That day was not so great for John. He had to tell a twenty-five-year-old father of three that he had testicular cancer. He went out at lunchtime and bought himself a sixpack of doughnuts and ate the lot in one sitting.

The flat had been turned into an electronics laboratory. Both John’s own laptop and Sherlock’s had been linked into the weird system of wires. John wondered if this was what the garage in which the Apple Mac had been invented looked like. 

Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut. John tapped on it, tentatively.

‘You okay?’

The door flew open, and there was Sherlock, and John had no words for describing what he looked like. It took him a few moments to assimilate the bizarre sight, but by then, Sherlock had stalked past him into the living room.

‘I shall need your help,’ he said. And then: ‘John, you are doing that goldfish thing again with your mouth. Do stop it, it’s very unsightly.’

‘Frankly, it’s hard not to,’ John managed to point out.

Sherlock was wearing what looked like a cross between a windsurfers’ dry suit, a latex rubber fetishist’s fantasy, and something from the Star Trek Borg hive, although he would never have understood that particular description, had John mentioned it. So he kept it inside his head and marvelled at the black rubber suit covered in wires. More wires down the front than the back, he noticed. And it seemed to have hands and feet built in, but ended at the neck, the smooth, shiny rubber sticking to Sherlock’s prominent clavicles in a worryingly sensuous way.

John rubbed his eyes with his fingers to extinguish the idea that was gathering behind them, namely, Sherlock in rubber. No, don’t go there, mate, he urged himself. For God’s sake. Trouble was, the suit was extremely tight, and left little to the imagination, almost every contour defined in a way that was very distracting.

Of course, it had to be said that the comedy headgear detracted somewhat from the overall erotic effect. Sherlock was wearing what looked like a mesh skullcap, into which he had fitted dozens of electronic sensors. His dark curls poked through in places, and the tightness of the hood distorted his forehead and made an unsightly tuck in his chin where it was strapped underneath. 

It was hard not to giggle.

John failed.

‘It’s for science,’ Sherlock snarled.

‘It would have to be!’

‘This is the first iteration,’ Sherlock said, leaning over one of the laptops and jabbing at the keys. ‘No point in making any special stylistic effort when the important thing is to achieve the intention of the experiment.’

‘Which is?’

‘To gather data on the brain during the action of stimulation of the sensory receptors in the skin through fractional electrical input.’

‘You’re trying to see what your brain does when you electrify yourself?’

‘As always, you choose the simplistic explanation. Of course not! Do I look like an idiot?’

John gave the wire nest on Sherlock’s head a pointed look and said, ‘I’m not answering that.’

Sherlock huffed and held out a jack plug. ‘Put that into the control deck over there.’

There was a pile of what looked like cannibalised old amplifiers beside the couch. These were connected to a bank of batteries and the two laptops.

‘This all looks a bit Heath-Robinson to me,’ John frowned.

Sherlock lay down on the sofa and made himself as comfortable as he could, given the wires attached to his skull.

‘It’s not necessary for it to be sleek. It merely has to be functional. Now plug me in and pull up a chair. Is the brainwave software working?’

John sat down and pulled a laptop onto his knees. The readout was coming in thick and fast, and from what he knew of neurological telemetry, it looked pretty much what he would expect Sherlock’s brain patterns to look like. In other words, off the scale compared with a normal person’s.

‘Right,’ Sherlock said, having settled himself on his back, arms at his sides. ‘Let’s begin. There’s a knob-‘

‘Wait, you’re expecting me to give you electric shocks?’

‘Well, I can hardly do it myself in this, can I?’

‘No, Sherlock, just – No.’

‘We can always swap places-‘

‘Absolutely under no circumstances-‘

‘If you’re still sulking about the thing with the gas-‘

‘Dangerous psychotropic hallucinogen, Sherlock,’ John snapped back. ‘And you exposed me to it without either my permission or my knowledge!’

‘And I told you it was necessary for the case - God, do we have to have this argument again? Stop wasting time and get on with the experiment!’

‘It’s not as if this experiment hasn’t been done by other people,’ John pointed out.

‘It may have been, in somewhat rudimentary form, but it hasn’t been performed on me.’

‘Oh, God, this is a genius thing, isn’t it?’

‘Envy does not become you, John.’

John gave up. ‘You’re going to do this whether I help or not, aren’t you?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

‘Alright then, but I get to call a halt if I think you are reaching the physiological danger zone.’

‘If you must. Turn the knob up by one notch on my count.’

It was a simple thing to do. Turn the knob when Sherlock told him to, monitor the brainwave readouts, heart rate, blood pressure, and be prepare to abort if there were signs of physiological distress. I can do this, John told himself, looking at the lean, rubber-clad body supine on the couch before him.

He reached out and switched on the current.

Sherlock’s legs gave a little jump. ‘Ooooo,’ he said.

‘I’m turning it off-‘

‘No, no, its fine. I’m fine. What are the readouts doing?’

Feeling uncomfortable, John checked the graph. ‘Hard to tell any change from the resting patterns.’

‘Go up to number 2, then.’

‘We should give you a chance to assimilate-‘

‘Just turn the bloody knob, John!’

John did.

Sherlock said what sounded like ‘Nnnnngggg.’

‘Beg pardon?’ John asked him.

‘This is a most unexpected effect.’

‘What is?’

‘Readouts?’ Sherlock asked, avoiding the question.

‘Nothing unusual yet.’

‘Mmmmm.’

‘Sherlock?’

‘Mmmmmm?’

‘Sherlock, are you-‘

‘Perfectly fine, John, perfectly fine. Think you could turn it up another notch now.’

John did.

Sherlock groaned. ‘Oh, yes!’

‘Right, that’s it, I’m switching it off now!’

‘I will break your fingers if you touch that dial!’

‘Suit yourself then!’ But the truth was, John was fascinated. Sherlock’s limbs had begun to twitch very slightly, and certain things were happening with his anatomy that only a rubber suit that tight could reveal. Actually, John thought, ‘draw attention to’, might be a better way of putting it. Sherlock was getting distinctly more defined in the trouser department. John tried not to look, but with all that rubber and all that sheer expanse of, well, Sherlock, it was hard not to.

‘Any interesting patterns?’ Sherlock was starting to sound rather breathy.

John had to clear his throat. ‘Oh, er, no. A few new spikes, though. Could be something.’

‘Try another notch. Maybe we can get it more pronounced- oh!’

Sherlock’s hips twitched of their own accord. He made that weird ‘Nnnnngggg’ sound again. John realised that sweat was starting to form on own his brow, as well as on Sherlock’s.

‘You okay?’

‘Perfectly…fine… thank you…’ Sherlock panted.

‘We’re at number 4 now.’

‘So… I… gathered…’

‘More?’

‘Think so…’

Notch number 5 had a distinctly impressive effect. Sherlock began to squirm his hips and rub the soles of his feet over the sofa cushions. John could see the muscles in his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth.

‘Sherlock, I’m not sure-‘

‘No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine, just don’t… Oh God, yes!’

John gawped. It was the most incredible thing he had ever witnessed. A six foot alabaster beanpole of a man with a face that might have been sculpted by Michelangelo Buonarotti, sheathed in shiny black rubber, lying on his back on a couch and writhing around like a lap dancer in a porn flick. There was a film of perspiration on Sherlock’s upper lip, and a sexy little flush on the crests of his cheekbones. His lips parted, plump and pink, as he arched his back and gripped the leather upholstery with his gauntleted hands. John’s mouth went dry as Sherlock began to grind his backside into the cushions, fingers convulsing.

He glanced at the readout. Now there was finally something to report, a new pattern of spikes on one of the lines, but it was obvious what they meant – arousal.

Dear God, if he goes on like this, he’s going to come, John thought. And that really set the cat amongst the pigeons inside his own trousers. He realised that the hand that was not resting on the control knob, waiting for the next instruction, had wandered of its own accord downwards, and was palming his rapidly blossoming erection through his jeans.

‘Sherlock? Sherlock, there are some good readings coming through – do you want me to-‘

‘More! Give me more!’

John turned the dial up to 6.

‘Uuuuuuuuhhhhh,’; Sherlock moaned. His hips started to thrust and jerk, his eyes screwed up. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!’

The readouts were going insane but John was not looking at them. His eyes were riveted on his friend as he moaned and shuddered on the couch. John had never actually watched another man orgasm in real life before – even living at close quarters in the army, there were some things that weren’t done, and one of them was wanking in front of your mates. He was aware that his own cheeks were burning, and his hand was grinding away in his lap in time with Sherlock’s bucking hips. This was nothing like the faked pleasures of internet porn either. It was raw, and lusty, and it stank of sex. And it was all happening barely two feet away from him in the body of the man he had shared a flat with for years.

Sherlock’s hips began to snap back and forth. He let out a wail so feral that John almost came too, just from the sound. A few more shudders and he sank back on the couch, trembling and flushed.

‘Switch it off! Switch it off!’ he rasped, eyes still closed.

John grabbed the dial and flung it into full reverse, then pulled out every plug he could get his hands on.

The silence between them was punctuated only by their own laboured breathing.

And then the reality of his own throbbing condition hit John square in the crotch, and he leapt to his feet and sprinted up the stairs to the privacy of his own bedroom. His back against the door, his cock in his hand, frantically stroking himself off, he heard the roar of the shower being turned on downstairs, and the image of Sherlock naked under the spray was all he needed to complete his ecstasy. He came copiously and intensely into his own fist just before his knees gave way and he slithered down the paintwork and onto the carpet in exhaustion.

By the time he had cleaned up, calmed down, overcome his embarrassment and shuffled down the stairs again, Sherlock was fully dressed, his face pink and scrubbed from his shower. He was hunched over the laptop as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

‘What are you doing?’ John ventured.

‘Data analysis,’ he said, not looking up. Those were the last words he uttered for the rest of the evening.


	2. Enhancement and Iteration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs a new data set, having analysed the previous night's and comfirmed that it is faulty. He's also pimped up the suit a little...

On Thursday morning, when John got up for work, he found the rubber suit hanging from the shower curtain rail. It had obviously been sluiced out the night before, and hung up to dry. John washed, shaved and cleaned his teeth as quickly as he could, then bolted back upstairs to hide before the erection it prompted could get any worse.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, jabbing away at the laptop, when John finally came down for breakfast. He didn’t look up, and only grunted when John set a cup of tea beside him.

‘Get what you wanted?’ John asked, glancing over his shoulder.

‘I think I will have to make some alterations,’ he muttered.

And John thought, Oh God, he means to do it again.

Which made Thursday at the surgery another six donut day.

 

Walking through the living room doorway, John cracked his head on a metal bar hanging from the doorframe.

‘What the f-!’ he growled, rubbing his sandy crown. ‘Sherlock, what are you up to now? For God’s sake, this place looks like a torture chamber!’

He found Sherlock bending over the kitchen table, fiddling with the rubber suit that was laid out under his hands.

‘The data we collected last night must be flawed, John,’ he explained. ‘I can’t find any other explanation.’

‘Explanation for what?’

Sherlock huffed. ‘Oh, do keep up! Friction from the upholstery on the sofa will skew the data! The only input must be from the electrical contacts.’

John eyed the apparatus that was apparently attached to the door frame. It consisted of a metal bar with leather straps attached at either end. It didn’t take much imagination to work out what they were for. His stomach did a little flip. He didn’t like to admit to the involuntary twitch in his trousers.

‘So, what? You are proposing to suspend yourself from the ceiling to minimise skin contact?’

Sherlock’s head flicked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘Genius, John! I would never have thought of that myself.’

‘Fuck you,’ John grinned back, that being his usual response to Sherlock’s sarcasm these days. ‘And I suppose you want me to turn the dials again?’

‘My own hands will be otherwise engaged.’

‘You don’t even know that that’s a double entendre, do you?’

‘I’m going to get dressed,’ Sherlock said, sweeping past him, trailing a rubber leg across the floorboards.

When he came back, fully suited up, he smelled of baby powder. From his vantage point in his armchair, John had a good view of the alterations Sherlock had made to the suit during the day. There were more wires. A lot more wires. Specifically attached the centre front of the suit, and to the backside.

‘You might singe your bum fluff,’ he observed, wryly.

‘As you so succinctly put it, fuck you.’ Sherlock dragged the crown of electrodes over his curls and yanked it down. His long, weird fingers fiddled with the strap under his chin.

‘Here, let me.’ John couldn’t stand watching anybody trying to do up a strap or a zip. That he had never been able to resist helping was a serious personality flaw. Sherlock had become used to it, but he still huffed his exasperation when John batted his hands out of the way to see to it, and he dropped his hands to his sides.   
Once John had finished, he stepped back and gave his flatmate the once-over.

‘Darling, you look just gorgeous,’ he camped.

‘Don’t make me repeat myself,’ the detective growled. He stalked over to the doorway and reached up for the straps.

‘Plug me in,’ he said.

John dragged up his chair. The central control boxes had been moved to the doorway too, and the laptops were sitting on top, humming away. John fished the trailing jack plug off the floor from beside Sherlock’s feet and plugged it onto the apparatus. He checked the software, and it was immediately clear that Sherlock had been updating that too. There were now readouts for his blood pressure and heart rate – which had an anticipatory speed about it to John’s eyes, suggesting that Sherlock knew exactly what he was up to this time, and was very much looking forward to it. A vague suspicion floated in John’s mind at that moment, as he glanced up at the inscrutable face under the tangle of wires. What was he up to? But it was immediately dissipated by Sherlock’s irritable snap.

‘What are you waiting for? Turn it on! I need to get this done so I can analyse the – ooooo!’

John grinned evilly, his fingers brushing the knob he had just turned.

‘How are we doing?’ he asked, in his most innocent tone.

‘Well, the extra electrodes on the feet are certainly working,’ Sherlock said. His legs twitched. ‘What are the graphs looking like?’

John gave him a non-committal shrug. ‘Another notch?’

Sherlock nodded, and John dutifully turned the dial. Sherlock’s body gave another little jolt, and his head wobbled on the fulcrum of his neck uncertainly.

‘Ok?’

‘Nnnnnnnnggggg.’ There it was again, that peculiarly Sherlockian sound that had been ringing in John’s ears all day. His cock gave a happy salute in response.

‘Respiratory rate, heart rate, and blood pressure all picking up nicely,’ he said.

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock rasped. ‘Since you are passing an electric current through my body.’

‘We could just cut to the chase, and attach a cattle prod to your genitals if you like?’

‘Fuck you repeatedly,’ Sherlock panted. ‘Fucking well turn it up!’

Number three on the dial seemed to have a much stronger effect today that it had yesterday, and John wondered how far that was due to anticipation too. It would never have occurred to Sherlock to factor the psychosexual component into the experiment, but John was much more savvy in this department than his friend. Not least because he was experiencing the same effect himself. However, with Sherlock standing over him, there was no way he could allow his own hand to wander again. He tried to concentrate on the telemetry and failed miserably.

‘Ooooh, God,’ Sherlock moaned.

Sweat broke out down John’s back.

‘Erm, not being funny or anything, but you made quite a bit of noise last night, and Mrs Hudson might-‘

‘She’s perfectly fine with it,’ Sherlock growled. ‘I checked.’

John shook his head and examined the readouts. ‘Now that’s just weird,’ he said.

‘Another notch, please,’ Sherlock gasped.

‘You don’t think she’d want to watch, do you?’ John asked as he obliged.

Sherlock began to visibly shudder. His gauntlets were wrinkling around the leather straps now, proving he was definitely hanging from them, rather than just holding onto them.

‘I mean, I always wondered if she had a bit of a thing for you-‘

‘Nnnnnnggggg!’

‘Ok, maybe not.’ John wriggled in his chair, relieved that his friend’s eyes were now firmly screwed shut. He didn’t want his own current state to be noticed, even if Sherlock didn’t seem to care about being witnessed in the midst of sexual abandon. 

The rubber had a rich sheen today, as if it had been wiped with something to make it shine. He recalled some old story about Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman costume having to be smeared with silicone in order to make it register for the cameras on the dark Batman set. He wondered if Sherlock had been up to something similar. He was sure that the suit was clinging to Sherlock in extremely erotic ways that it had not done before. Or maybe it was just that he was becoming hyper-aware of the outline of Sherlock’s swelling cock beneath it. In any case, the detective had begun to writhe, his hips snapping, his buttocks twitching together. John could even see the fluttering of his belly muscles under the bunches of cabling. He wondered what enhancements Sherlock had actually made to the suit. The thought made his balls throb.

Oh God, he realised. I am totally fucked. I’m fantasizing about my flatmate’s sexual kinks. And then watching him enact them. At what point did this become my life?

Sherlock was panting hard now. ‘More. Give me more!’

‘I’m not sure- ‘

‘Just do it!’

John realised his fingers were shaking as he reached out for the dial.

‘Oh, fuck, yeah, fuck!’ Sherlock yelled, arching his back. The telemetry was all over the place. There was sweat streaming down Sherlock’s face and dripping off his nose. His whole weight was suddenly on the thin leather straps around his wrists, and John had a flash of horror that he might dislocate both his shoulders in the violence of his orgasm. Because it was about to happen. The readouts were unequivocal, as was the way Sherlock was squirming and yelling.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh-‘

And then Sherlock was all thrusting hips and shuddering body and every extremity jerking as he threw back his head and screamed.

The next thing John knew, Sherlock was hanging limply, and John himself had come liberally in his trousers. In spite of this, panic gripped him that his friend was injured. He ripped out the jack plug and scrambled to take his weight, slipping off the straps. Sherlock turned out to be heavier than John had anticipated, and he couldn’t take the dead weight of the detective, given the jelly-like state of his own legs. They sank together onto the floor, shaking, Sherlock cradled in the doctor’s arms. John pulled off the skull cap.

‘Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay? Sherlock!’

Pale eyes blinked open, heavy with exhaustion. ‘I bloody hope you saved that data,’ he breathed.

Friday was another six donut day.


	3. Comparative Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Oh, do keep up, John! You know that no experiment is of any use without a control. I require a comparative data set.’

There was a bench press in the middle of the sitting room when John got home.

‘Sherlock, there’s a bench press in the sitting room,’ John called, examining it in his flat mate’s absence.

‘I know!’

‘What have you done to it? It’s got-‘

‘Enhancements, yes,’ Sherlock said, emerging from the kitchen with a c-shaped section of metal pole wrapped in insulating foam in his hand. ‘I’m quite pleased with them. All we have to do is test them out.’

‘What are they for?’ John watched Sherlock adjust the angle of the bench to about 45 degrees and then fit the new metal section into the frame so that it looked like a safety bar on a fairground ride seat.

‘You rest your arms on it,’ Sherlock said. He pulled a stand over and clicked that into the bottom end of the press.

‘You?’ John’s stomach flipped over. Sherlock used language very precisely. He would not have engaged the second person without reason. He was also attaching what looked like a pair of gynaecological stirrups to the stand.

‘Well, you can’t hang from the door frame with your shoulder,’ he said, not looking up. ‘I thought this might be a reasonable solution, minimum contact involved, allowing for full movement but offering sufficient support.’

‘With my shoulder?’ John parroted.

‘Oh, do keep up, John! You know that no experiment is of any use without a control. I require a comparative data set.’

‘You want me to wear the suit?’

Sherlock turned his storm-cloud grey eyes on John, adopting the sort of knowing expression he might have only expected previously in a thousand year old whore.

‘Don’t tell me the thought had not occurred to you,’ he purred.

It did something to John, just as he knew it would. Just as John knew he knew it would.

‘It won’t fit,’ was the doctor’s feeble defence.

‘It’s rubber. It will stretch.’

‘I don’t mean horizontally, I mean vertically. There’s what? Five, six inches between us? I’ll look like Nora Batty!’

‘A little bunching around the ankles will hardly affect the outcome, especially since there are so few registering nerve clusters there.’ Sherlock removed the safety bar again. ‘Now hurry up and get changed.’

‘Er.’ 

John was not sure he had given his consent. He was not sure how he ended up in the bathroom, staring at the suit hanging on the rail next to the shower curtain. 

‘Use plenty of baby powder,’ Sherlock called through the closed door.

‘Why?’

‘Because we’ll never get the bloody thing off you otherwise. It sticks like hell!’

John stripped. He presumed from what Sherlock said that it was necessary for the electrodes to be in direct contact with the skin, so he would have to be naked under all that rubber and copper wire. He pulled the thing off the hangar. It was heavy, much heavier than he had expected. He took his time examining it. It really was a clever thing. The inside was far more impressive than the rather cobbled-together outside. Sherlock had taken time and effort to make sure the contacts were smooth, and also glazed with some kind of protector to prevent skin burns. Up close, it was clear that there were a plethora of contacts around the erogenous zones, spreading across the chest, clustering around the nipples, down the belly to the crotch. 

The crotch area was the most ingenious part. It took John several minutes to fathom out how it functioned.

There were clusters of contacts along the central seam, and an additional flap that ran diagonally out across the back of the vertical seat seam, obviously intended to sit between the buttocks. A tongue was stitched in and shaped to accommodate the testes and perineum. Then there was a large square of rubber fitted at the front, anchored in the middle of the lower edge and studded with a complex array of extra contacts. It took John a while to work out that this was intended to be wrapped around the penis.  
Which then led him to consider the size of the square. After all, Sherlock must have measured it from himself. It was a big piece of fabric. Did it fully encase the entire length, or was it only intended to cover the shaft, leaving the glans without stimulation?

John looked at himself, to make a comparison. He was already half hard, and it occurred to him that a man would have to be in a reasonable state of arousal to effect a proper positioning of the flap at all. His own penis would fit nicely into the wrap without poking out over the top. He found himself suddenly hoping Sherlock’s didn’t stick out at the end, and then felt embarrassed at so infantile a comparison.

‘What are you doing in there,’ Sherlock shouted irritably through the door. ‘Are you mining the talc yourself, for God’s sake?’

‘I’m working out how to get it on,’ John called back.

‘I’ll show you-‘ The handle rattled. John panicked.

‘No, no, it’s alright, I’m fine, everything’s fine!’ He was intensely relieved he had thought to lock the door.

‘Well, get a move on! I haven’t got all night, I need to get this data sorted out.’

Thank you for your consideration, John thought angrily, and began to smother himself in baby powder.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he could only manage a restrained waddle, and that was as much because of the electrodes in the soles of the suit’s feet as the complicated trussing of his genitals.

‘I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me,’ he huffed at Sherlock as his friend dragged the skullcap over his sandy hair.

‘I assure you,’ Sherlock muttered, concentrating on getting the sensors in the right places, and most definitely avoiding John’s eyes. ‘The experience will more than compensate for the minor discomforts.’

‘It had better, or you’re cooking my dinner for a month, do you hear?’

‘I am suitably motivated.’ Sherlock grunted. ‘Now can we get on?’

John shuffled over to the bench and allowed his friend to help him into position. It was an odd angle, and the wires dug into his scalp. Sherlock lifted his feet up and threaded his legs into the stirrups. He suddenly had intense sympathy with all those women whose wombs he had examined. It was a humiliating and vulnerable pose. 

And then Sherlock fitted the safety bar in over him.

‘Rest your wrists on that. It should leave your elbows free.’

‘I’m not sure-‘

‘It’s fine, John. Nothing to worry about.’

John was having grave doubts. After all, Sherlock’s personal kink could turn out to be for pain. He might get sexually aroused from electrocution. In which case, John was in a seriously dangerous situation, and about to have an incredibly unpleasant and extremely un-erotic time.

Sherlock plugged in the jack.

‘Look, I’m not entirely-‘

And then those long, sensual fingers reached out. Touched the dial. Time stood still. John held his breath. And-

‘Holy fucking mother of God!’

He had not been prepared for the shot of pleasure that scythed through the soles of his feet, up the insides of his thighs and straight to the base of his cock. He had not been prepared for the way his buttocks suddenly seemed to be shimmering of their own accord. And he certainly had not, in any way, been prepared for the delicious, honeyed thrills spiralling up through his anus.

‘Told you.’ Sherlock gave him a smug grin.

‘Holy Jesus Christ on a Vespa!’

‘You get very creative with your blasphemy when you are aroused, John. Is that normal, or just specific to this instance?’

John whimpered. His nipples were flashing on and off like neon lights.

‘Ready for number two?’

John managed to nod in spite of the wire halo.

Sherlock twisted the dial.

Explosions of sparks seemed to break out along John’s spine. Weird things were happening to the soles of his feet. Weird, unbelievably sexy things. How could feet be sexy? Whatever part of John’s brain thought up the question immediately shorted out because his perineum was now humming and his buttocks seemed to be developing the autonomous capacity to ripple in spirals. The vortex of shivers in his arse seemed to be drilling deeper by the second. And his cock was being stroked by a thousand butterfly wings.

‘Oh, God, Oh God!’

‘You’re generating some very interesting telemetry here,’ Sherlock observed, tweaking the dial again. ‘That’s three. How do you feel?’

‘Nnnnnnngggg!’ (Long afterwards, John would still think of the machine as ‘The Machine that makes you go Nnnnngggg’.)

‘Is that good or bad?’

Frankly, John didn’t care. His balls and perineum were now lit up like the Blackpool Illuminations, and his rectum was having a gyrating party all of its own. The rubber was getting unbearably tight around his cock, and he strained his hips up, aching for more friction, to press into the deft tongues of cool fire that seemed to be licking his shaft from root to tip. From his toes to his fingertips, his whole body felt alight with trembling sparks.

Suddenly he was aware of a warm presence very close, hot breath on his cheek, in his ear, caressing his mind as well as his skin.

‘You like it, don’t you? Let it take you. Let it sweep you away into ecstasy. Give yourself to it, John. Enjoy it.’

The sensation intensified and afterwards he realised Sherlock must have turned the dial one last time. Number five.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

It was like an out-of-body experience. Once moment he was lying on the bench with his feet in the air, the next he was floating, undulating in a pleasure so deep and rich that he felt like he was underwater, and he didn’t care whether he drowned or not. The orgasm arced through him, distorting his body like a rag doll’s; a climax so intense, so profound, that it felt like everything, from the tip of his cock, his balls, his arse, his entrails, his spinal cord, all the way up to his brain, was being turned inside out and plunged into warm caramel.

He was faintly aware that he was screaming. 

Later, when he became a little more coherent again, he found that he was in Sherlock’s arms, that Sherlock had dragged off the skull cap, and was pulling the rubber suit hurriedly from his upper body, peeling it off like a blackened skin. He grabbed at Sherlock’s shoulders, heaving for breath, and by tightening his fists, forced him to meet his gaze.

Those storm cloud eyes were not afraid, as he had expected. They were crazed with desire.

‘Oh, God, John,’ Sherlock rasped, his cheeks flushed deep pink. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’ John managed to pant.

‘How bloody hot it is to watch!’

John managed a breathy laugh before he flopped forward against Sherlock’s chest.

But Sherlock was not going to let him rest. ‘I need it. I need it, come on, John!’

Head spinning, John tried to resist. ‘Looks, it’s a mess, I’ve just-‘

‘You think I’m not aware of that? I don’t care! I need you to use it on me now.’

The inside of the suit was slick with sweat and sticky with semen, but Sherlock was already prying off his clothes as John fumbled his way out of the rubber labyrinth. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the detective’s pale flanks, long and slender, and between his legs, his cock bobbing red and tumescent.

Oh God.

He managed to get the legs off and Sherlock snatched the suit from him and stumbled into it.

‘Don’t you need some powder?’

‘Worry about that later,’ Sherlock muttered, pulling the rubber up to his thighs and delving between his legs to position the soiled wrap on his penis.

Oh God, that’s really not helping.

John’s knees gave way, and he flopped naked into the chair in which Sherlock had been sitting only moments earlier. He was still hard. Not softening in the slightest, he realised.  
This just gets worse.

Sherlock had got the rest of the suit on and was fishing between his shoulder blades for the long zip tab to do it up.

‘Let me,’ John managed, and did it for him with trembling fingers. He hooked up the wire halo with a finger, but Sherlock shook his head, and settled himself on the bench. John dropped the skullcap on the floor and took the plug from his friend’s hand. A hand that was shaking just as much as his own, he noted. Sherlock put his feet in the stirrups.

‘Ready?’ John asked him, fitting the plug into the socket.

‘Yep.’ He must have been desperate. He never used abbreviations like that. John turned the dial to one.

‘Oh, God,’ Sherlock groaned.

‘That do the trick?’

‘Nnnng, more.’

‘You need to get used to it-‘ John started, now employing the knowledge of experience. The soles of his feet were already tingling in sympathy.

‘Turn it up to three,’ Sherlock said, closing his eyes. His eyelids shivered, long dark lashes brushing his delicately flushed cheeks. ‘I need more.’

With no real idea why, John did as he was told. After all, what else could he do? He was naked, hard, post-orgasmic and, God help him, still wildly turned on, not least by the thought that Sherlock’s hard-on was now bathed in John’s own come, which on the whole was not something he would ever have admitted to being excited by in any circumstances.

Sherlock wailed.

‘Oh, God, yes!’

He squirmed, throwing his head back so that the long arch of his neck glistened with sweat. He gripped the edge of the bench hard. The metal brackets that connected the stirrups to the stand rattled. 

John realised his hand had closed around the still sticky length of his own cock. He couldn’t help himself. It shouldn’t be possible but it was happening.

Suddenly Sherlock was yelling, ‘More! Need more!’

John reached for the dial, but Sherlock shouted at him, ‘No! The box, the box!’

There was a shoe box sitting on the table, and as Sherlock struggled and panted, hips jerking, John reached out a shaking hand for it. Inside were a bottle of lube, a box of condoms, and an object of a kind that John had only heard of, never actually seen. Made of black plastic, it looked like the handle of a child’s buggy, a c-shaped series of bulbous knobs. The bottom part extended out flat, like a spatula, but it had a dial on the end.

‘For God’s sake, what’s keeping you,’ Sherlock groaned.

John took the thing out of the box. ‘But, the suit-‘

‘Adjustments,’ Sherlock panted. ‘I made adjustments.’

With that he untucked his legs from the stirrups and rolled off the bench, landing on his hands and knees on the floorboards.

‘Behind – quick!’

Trying to think practically, and not with his own cock, John rolled a condom onto the knobbed end of the toy and daubed it with lube. Then he found himself looking at his hands, shiny with moisture.

I am naked and hard, and about to insert a prostate massager into the anus of my flatmate, who is currently in a state of near orgasmic arousal as a consequence of wearing an electrified rubber suit. At what point did this become my life?

Did I say flatmate? I meant, fucking gorgeous flatmate.

Oh, God, I’m actually talking to myself.

He slithered onto the floor and shuffled on his knees until he was behind Sherlock. The detective was still plugged into the machines, his hips grinding helplessly, his head hanging loose between dropped shoulders, curls falling in a soft dark cascade onto the planks.

Upside down, he panted, ‘behind. The seam.’

John reached out and ran his hand over Sherlock’s well-rounded rump to where, unseen even when he himself had examined the suit, a hole had been unpicked in the stitching. He slid a slippery finger inside and felt smooth, hot flesh.

Sherlock moaned.

John tugged the edges of the rubber apart, and there was the pink knot of Sherlock’s anus, jewelled with sweat and ripe for the taking.

John licked his lips and faced up to the task. He ran his fingertip softly over the pucker, and Sherlock growled, his hips bucking.

‘For God’s sake, put it in!’

‘Take your time,’ John soothed, getting a little of his own back. ‘Relax into it, let it take you, Sherlock.’ He circled his fingertip, smearing on the lube until the flesh gleamed. He realised his mouth was watering. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never wanted to do something like this before, never dreamed of it, so why now? But the answer was undulating under his left hand, where it rested on Sherlock’s sacrum, and looking at the fresh pinkness of the skin down there, it was all John could do to stop himself burying his face between Sherlock’s rubber-clad cheeks and feasting. 

Instead he played a little, stroking until the sphincter softened a little, while Sherlock moaned and gyrated in an agony of sensation. Satisfied that he had as much relaxation as he could hope for when his friend’s body was at such a pitch of tension, he eased his index finger in up to the first knuckle joint. Sherlock gasped and pushed back, and before John knew what was happening, his finger had been entirely engulfed in tight, hot flesh. Sherlock let out a guttural noise and ground against him. Almost in retaliation, John crooked his finger and stroked exactly where, as a doctor, he knew it would touch a bulls eye. The noise that came out of Sherlock’s sinuous throat as his prostate was caressed was unlike anything John had ever imagined possible 

‘More! You don’t need to prepare me, John, just, just – please?’

The plea came out as something of a wail.

‘Well, if you want it,’ John said, and picked up the massager. 

‘I need it! Now!’

John switched it on at the base and it buzzed weirdly in his hand. He daubed a little more lube on the tip and then lined it up with Sherlock’s softened hole.  
A slight pressure from the heel of his hand, and suddenly it was slurped inside right up to the first knob.

‘Oh! Oh!’

‘Good?’

‘Nnnng!’

‘More?'

A frantic nodding, curls frothing everywhere. John pressed again, and this time, Sherlock’s hole gaped and swallowed, and damn if that wasn’t the hottest thing John had ever seen in his entire life. 

A few more seconds and the whole thing was in, only the flat part still on the outside, sitting snugly against Sherlock’s perineum and humming nicely. Sherlock ground his hips backwards, wanting some purchase, but there was none to have. He seemed past words now, his whole body shaking to an alarming extent. John rested his hands on the detective’s buttocks, felt their tremors, and then Sherlock pushed back against him, moaning incoherently.

John had never been envious of an inanimate object before. Now, dear God, he’d give anything to be in that black knobbly bit of plastic’s place.

‘I can’t.. I can’t..’ Sherlock gasped, throwing his head back.

‘Feel it, let go into it,’ John cooed, pushing back against Sherlock’s pelvis with all his strength.

‘Need more,’ Sherlock gasped.

‘It’s as high as it will go.’

‘More… fuck, need…. More…. Need … you….’

Sometimes instinct takes over. Sometimes the primal sex drive doesn’t need to be asked a second time. Have cock, will definitely travel.

John eased the throbbing massager out of Sherlock’s passage and dropped it with a clatter on the floor in his hurry to take its place. He put his thumb through a condom, gave up, fumbled the lube, managed to get most of the bottle’s contents on the floorboards, and only a spoonful on his own cock, and then before he knew what was happening, he was sliding into Sherlock’s hot, taut body.

‘Fuck, yes!’ 

John couldn’t think of anything to add to Sherlock’s incisive observation, because everything was just so fucking, fucking fantastic. The rubber sticking to the fronts of his thighs, the sweat, the silken depths, the caress of Sherlock’s already quivering muscles stroking his shaft, the body under him grinding and wanting, just wanting him so badly. He pounded into his friend’s arse, leaving nothing spare, giving everything. Every sense was overwhelmed as Sherlock cried and begged for more, canting his hips, taking every thrust as if his life depended on it. Every cell in John’s body seemed to be singing. He was dizzy with need.

And then Sherlock came.

It was like an explosion of sensation, rippling outwards from the core of his being, every muscle pulsing and shimmering with an electric pleasure so intense that he screamed John’s name over and over again. Clenched inside that evanescing body, John was dragged after, caught up and hurled over the edge into mind-melting ecstasy.  
Sherlock’s arms and legs gave way, and they crashed onto the floor, and the jack plug was jerked out of the socket, and after that there was only struggling for breath and heat and the flare of brilliance that was their bodies united.

Time passed.

John glowed like cooling iron, incoherent, barely conscious, unable to move, still engulfed in Sherlock’s trembling white heat. He was faintly aware of kissing the downy back of Sherlock’s neck, the place above the neck of the suit, where the skin was moist and salty from exertion. 

Then he was softening, and Sherlock’s body was tightening, bearing down on him, and he had to move. Carefully easing himself out, he rolled onto his back and they lay there together, side by side, until finally he opened his eyes at about the same time Sherlock’s fluttered open, and their gazes met.

They panted at one another.

Sherlock’s cheek was smooshed up against the floor, his mouth lolling open, his lids heavy with exhaustion. John managed a little chuckle.

‘What?’

‘Look at the state of you!’

‘Snuh,’ Sherlock grunted, dribbling a little and totally incapable of doing anything about it.

John rested his hands on the skirts of his rib cage and waited till his breathing began to slow.

‘So, do you use this method of seduction on all your lovers?’ he grinned eventually.

‘Only the most recalcitrant,’ Sherlock snuffled.

‘Recalcitrant?’

‘You weren’t getting my hints. I had to come up with something so extreme, even you would get it.’

‘You were hinting?’

‘Continually.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t make me repeat myself.’

‘You could have just asked me.’

‘What, ask Dr John “I’m not gay” Watson to take me to bed and fuck me witless? Yes, that would have worked.’ Sherlock struggled a little, and then managed to roll onto his side, facing John.

‘So this was your solution?’

‘Worked, didn’t it?’

‘Given that I’ve just had two orgasms in less than an hour, which I don’t think I’ve managed since I was about thirteen, I think I would have to say yes.’

Sherlock flashed him a smug grin. ‘How long before you think you would be ready to go again?’

‘What? Are you trying to cripple me?’

‘Give me a ballpark figure?’

‘How about tomorrow morning?’

Sherlock let his head flop onto the floor with a thump. ‘Suppose that will have to do,’ he panted.

‘On one condition, though,’ John said, rolling onto his side too, and reaching out stroke Sherlock’s cheek tenderly.

‘What?’

‘Next time we do it without the suit.’

‘You want to-oh!’ 

John pulled the trembling detective into his arms. ‘Is it a deal?’

And just before John kissed him, Sherlock whispered ‘yes.’


End file.
